Confusion of the Senses
by letterblue
Summary: Tom Riddle is an ambitious and prodigal pianist struggling with a plateau in his talents. Hermione Granger is an inexperienced and connectionless composer scouted by sheer force of luck. Throw them in the prestigious Hogwarts Academy of Music, and chaos ensues. Tomione AU
1. Chapter 1

_**Synesthesia:** A condition in which one type of stimulation evokes the sensation of another, such as when the hearing of a sound produces the visualization of a colour or shape. Confusion of the senses._

* * *

Tom Riddle ripped the ridiculous red tie from his neck and swung his fist into his dressing room wall. The pain of splitting knuckles did nothing to quell his fury. This was the third assessment in a row. Once again, there was Professor Dippit and his gaggle of judges, cooing about his flawless technique, the precision of his arpeggios, the commanding presence of his performance. Once again there was that comment. From that wretched, wretched man.

"You truly possess outstanding talent," Dumbledore's soft, cheery voice had said. "But I believe your performance today could have been improved by a better understanding of the emotion of the piece."

That insufferable Dumbledore. Always going on in some form or the other about the emotion, or the soul, or the unique interpretation that Tom's music lacked. Was his purpose to be a broken record, forever haunting Tom which his incomprehensible disapproval? How he loathed him. How he sought desperately for his approval, if only to quiet the voices in his own head.

What exactly did he not understand about the emotion of the piece? La Fille aux Cheveaux du Lin was a laughably straightforward piece dynamics-wise; it only went from soft to softer to less soft. He'd read the interpretations, even though he really hadn't needed to. It was supposed to be romantic, subtle, melancholic, and Tom had been so careful to replicate that in his playing. Why then? What was he missing?

He flung himself into a chair, his fingers pulling at his perfectly mussed hair. It would be so easy to dismiss Dumbledore as crazy, or tell himself that the man had it out of Tom, especially since other professors never seemed to have a problem with his playing.

He knew, however, that Dumbledore was a fair judge, and one who was indisputably brilliant. The old man was widely considered the most talented musician of the century, and if Tom was going to surpass him, which he was fully planning on doing, he would have to find the factor he was missing.

Resigned, he got up and fetched his tie from where it lay in a heap on the dark mahogany floor. The miserable thing cost more than all his school books put together.

* * *

"Mione?"

The vibrant orange of Ginny's voice echoed as she stepped into the posh bathroom of Steinway Theatre. "Hermione honestly! You're not even the one performing."

"I know, I know. It's just, I've never heard my pieces played out loud before. And in front of so many people."

The red-head made an impatient noise. "I understand Mione, I do, but if you don't stop pacing in here, we'll miss the whole thing altogether."

Hermione acquiesced, allowing herself to be dragged into the auditorium. She was being a little silly, she'd admit.

Ginny had been the one who mailed Hermione's compositions to the director of the Steinway Performing Arts Centre where they both took lessons, and convinced her piano teacher to let her perform one of Hermione's pieces in their annual recital. All, Hermione might add, before consulting her. Even now, Hermione couldn't decide if she wanted to yell at Ginny or hug her.

After plopping Hermione down into a chair near the front of the stage, Ginny raced backstage to take her spot with the other performers. Ginny played the violin only recreationally, but Hermione could not help but marvel at how confident and talented of a player she'd become, considering how bad her bouts of stage fright had been when they were younger.

A small group of middle-aged people took their seats a row in front of her. They were impeccably dressed, and stood out even amidst the dark ebony wood and golden chandeliers that were Steinway's auditorium. The Steinway Performing Arts School itself wasn't well known outside of London, however Ginny's violin teacher, Mrs. Barnet, was a graduate of the Hogwarts Academy of Music, and she had a feeling the group were friends of hers.

The curtains opened, and one by one, the performances began. Though most of the students at were strict lessons-once-a-week, hobby musicians, Steinway teachers had a way of beating high standards into you, and the recital reflected it. Hermione closed her eyes as she listened to everything from Chopin to interpretive jazz.

Ginny was one of the last ones. Hermione held her breath as her friend touched her bow to her strings, sounding the opening notes to Hermione's Aria, notes that she'd only hear in her head before now. Ginny had always been an expressive player, a fact for which she was thankful as her piece came to life, both familiar and foreign at the same time.

She closed her eyes and let the music paint the story she'd imagined while writing it. The melody lulled over her like a wave, sorrowful blues blending into rich purples and then to bright reds as the key slipped from minor to major. It resonated in her bones, and it almost pained her when it was over.

As people flooded out the doors of the auditorium at the recital's end, Hermione found her friend and threw her arms around her. "Oh Gin! Thank you."

"No problem Mione." A smug grin stretched across Ginny's freckled face. "Although I thought you should know, there's a lady I don't know talking to Mrs. Barnet about your piece."

"What do you mean?"

"When the recital was over, she got up and asked Mrs. Barnet the name of the piece I'd played, and she told her you'd composed it yourself. They started talking and I don't think they've stopped yet."

"Oh-"

"Hermione? There's someone here I want you to speak with." Mrs. Barnet's soft-spoken voice came from around the corner.

Hermione barely had enough time to shoot a bewildered look to Ginny before her teacher appeared, followed by an impeccably dressed woman with a serious face.

"Minerva, this is Hermione Granger, a theory student under Mr. Wright. She's the one who wrote the piece." Hermione pulled on her shabby red dress as the woman's gaze swept over to her. "Hermione, this is Minerva Mcgonagall, an old colleague and friend."

Minerva McGonagall? Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Minerva McGonagall was a world renown contemporary composer, and the author of one of Hermione's favourite books on composition, Elements of Musical Theory.

"Oh. Oh! It's such a pleasure to meet you Professor McGonagall. I adore your book on musical theory!"

Professor McGonagall gave her a thin-lipped smile. "Thank you my dear. Amelia told me you composed the piece that your friend performed."

"Yes, composing's a bit of a hobby of mine. I've never, well, asked anyone to play my pieces before now though." Hermione hated how cold and clammy her hands felt. She wasn't one to get star-struck, but this was her idol standing in front of her.

"I don't think I've heard anything quite like it, Ms. Granger. I especially liked the way you wrote the harmonies in the second part. It was a bold move, using such unconventional combinations, but it really helped create a suspenseful atmosphere, didn't it?"

"Oh…thank you." Hermione was quite sure her face was turning the exact shade of Ginny's hair. It didn't help that the professor's voice was such a jarring, deep purple.

"However, I think the left hand could be improved. There were parts when it felt like both voices were fighting for dominance. I understand the effect you were trying to produce, but it seems to be a little lacking."

Hermione nodded severely. It had been a large concern for her while writing. "Yes, now that I have heard it performed, I think changing some parts of the left hand to form a polyrhythm might help, perhaps?"

McGonagall made a small sound of approval. "A creative fix indeed. How long have you been in music Miss Granger? What instruments do you play?"

Hermione felt her overwhelming joy plummet somewhat as she bit her lip. "Er…I don't play any instruments I'm afraid. I haven't got much talent for it. I've been studying music theory since I was ten though."

McGonagall nodded. "Do you enjoy composing?"

"Yes! More than anything."

Professor McGonagall's expression softened. "Miss Granger, I believe you have a lot of talent, and I would love to see it cultivated. I am a Professor at Hogwarts Academy of Music, and if you'd like, I could to talk to our Board of Directors. If I could get a copy of some of your recent works to showcase, we might be able to offer you admission, and maybe even a scholarship."

Time seemed to stop. Surely she was dreaming. Hermione had never allowed herself to believe the possibility of a career as a composer. It was not something ordinary daughters of dentists with no musical talent would dare dream of. She'd always planned to become something more practical and suited towards her bookish personality, like a lawyer or doctor.

Hermione struggled to close her open mouth. She was sure she must have looked like a goldfish. She was being given the option of pursuing a career in the one thing that made her happiest. Even more than that, she was being offered possible acceptance into one of the most prestigious musical schools in the world, and one that was almost purely for legacies and children of famous musicians.

She really should think this over. She should ask the Professor for the chance to discuss this with her parents. It would be the Hermione thing to do to think before giving a definite respond.

"Yes! Please t-that would be amazing!" She blurted out. "I'll send them to you as soon as I can."

Forget what she ought to do. They were talking about Hogwarts for heavens sake.

* * *

"Thank you so much. I hate to ask this of you, but we really have no choice."

Riddle's smile was laced with a precise amount of sorrow. "I completely understand. I've always looked up to Gideon as a upperclassman, and what happened to him was a tragedy. It'd be the least I could do to take over his duties until he recovers."

"I certainly hope he does. So much talent, that boy…but with an injury like that," Professor Merrythought sighed, pursing her lips. "It would only be for the remainder of the summer. Consider it practice for next year. I'm sure your name will come up for it."

He nodded seriously, repressing the urge to smirk. "Alright. I should ask Dorea Black about the Choir then?"

"Yes, Thank you Mr. Riddle."

Tom left a Professor Merrythought was a somber farewell and headed back to his dorm, straightening himself out of that dreadfully stiff, melancholy posture he'd been forced to undertake for the pass half an hour. A slow smile crept across his face. Though he now had to concern himself with preparations for the Alumni performance, his goal was accomplished. Tragic as it was, Gideon Tonk's injury was no accident.

* * *

Hermione slipped back into the empty train compartment and slide the door closed. She'd changed into her Hogwarts uniform in a hurry, thinking it would give her confidence, but the sight of all the students she passed on the way from the change room seemed to reverse the effect. Cellos clutched between steady knees and the smell of polish and wax and old music scores; all of it made her want to shrink into a corner. There was baby grand in her train compartment, for heaven's sake.

She combated this feeling, of course, by pulling out the textbook for History of Twentieth Century Music, a class she had the second semester, and setting to work, devouring the words with astounding fervour, even by Hermione Granger standards.

Her extended cram session had begun the moment she receive the call that Hogwarts was, by some miracle, offering her a full scholarship, and did not seem to be stoping any time soon. Not only did she pour over any and all music books she could get her hands on, but also enforced her knowledge on science, math and linguistics.

While Hermione knew most students chose only to take music courses, Hogwarts was also renowned for having one of the best economics and science programs in Britain. There was no way she would ignore an opportunity like that.

Even if she was surrounded by child prodigies and future concert musicians, Hermione was not going to settle for second best. She'd been top of class by a mile for the past six years at her old private school, and she intended do the same here. Even if this school was composed of over 90 percent legacies. Hell would freeze over before she would let a little talent intimidate her into submission.

The door of her compartment slide open, and Hermione looked up to see two boys walking in, dressed in the black, tailored suits that were the boy's uniform, paired with striped green ties. One was a lanky, and dark-haired, while the other had blond hair and grey eyes. Both stopped short when they saw Hermione and her generous spread of books.

The dark-haired boy sneered. He might have been handsome, had it not been for his expression. "Get out." Dark blue spewed from his mouth as he spoke.

"Pardon?" Hermione managed indignantly, taken aback by the boy's rudeness.

"I said, get out." The boy spoke with mock calm, as if she were particularly slow. "This is our compartment."

"It's fine, Dorian. She can stay." The blond boy regarded her with utter disinterest. His voice was an icy grey, like harsh mountains and dry terrain. He dropped his luggage in a corner and slid his violin case off his shoulder with ease, taking a seat on the other side of the compartment.

Hermione's cheeks burned. Were there actually assigned compartments, and someone had forgotten to tell her?

"Abraxas Malfoy," the blond boy said offhandedly, not even glancing up as he opened the case and rosined his bow.

"Dorian Prince." The other boy grudgingly followed suit before setting down beside Malfoy.

Hermione didn't offer up her name, because she got the distinct impression that neither of them cared. Malfoy and Prince. Those names brought a plethora of famous musicians to mind, including Septimus Malfoy, world-class Cellist and Lilian Prince, famous opera singer and vocal instructor. It probably wouldn't be a stretch for her to guess they had famous relatives. This was Hogwarts, after all. It was unnerving, really, to imagine the children of people she read about in textbooks sitting right in front of her.

Malfoy brought his violin up to his chin, and Hermione couldn't help but feel like it looked out of place. The violin was beautifully crafted and elegant, obviously an antique model. Malfoy was all broad shoulders and harsh angles and cold grey eyes, an image you'd conjure up when you heard the words war general, and not violinist.

However, when he drew his bow across the strings and began playing, Hermione almost felt ashamed for the thought. It was lovely, furious song that reminded Hermione of a racing horse, and the music exploded out in flashes of red and blue and black.

Malfoy was strangely still as his bow danced back and forth, the fingers of his left hand trembling as he reached a vibrato section. It was not a rigid stillness, but one of someone who had mastered every slight movement with disciplined efficiency. A far cry from Ginny, who played dramatically, and with her whole body.

Hermione corrected herself. Perhaps someone could look like both a war general and a violinist at the same time. Looking at his slight frown -which looked rather menacing- and half closed eyes, she'd never heard anyone play more beautifully.

"Wrist still not healed yet, Abraxas?" Prince remarked as Malfoy finished his song.

"Is it noticeable?" Malfoy set his bow down on the table and rubbed his right wrist.

"Just in the second half. You were a little sloppy."

Malfoy nodded, and Hermione gaped. If that had been sloppy…

"That was beautiful." She was reluctant to met Malfoy's stony gaze.

"Thank you." He gave her a weighing look. "You are?"

"Hermione Granger. I'm transferring into seventh year."

He simply nodded, but Prince looked slightly scandalized. "Granger? What your mother's maiden name?"

Hermione blinked. Then blinked again. What sort of question was that? "Wilkins. Why?"

"No musical blood at all in your family? I wonder why they even let you in." Prince snorted. "Studying to be a teacher then? Or one of those new age musicians?"

Hermione squared her jaw and scowled. "No. I'm studying composition. And I don't see why it's such a big deal that my parents aren't some famous musicians. Heritage has got nothing to do with it."

She'd heard rumours that there would be people with elitist attitudes, but she hadn't realized they would be quite so upfront about it.

"Oh you'll eat your words soon enough. Common folk like you just don't have the talent, or the connections to keep up with the rest of us," said Prince smugly. "Hogwarts is wasted on your kind."

"That is the most- you don't anything about me!" Hermione bristled, feeling her blood roar in her ears. "How do you know I'm not just as talent as you are? And, and someone in your long musical ancestry must have been born to non-muscians!"

"I think," Malfoy's cool, calm voice was barely above a murmur, but it was enough to stop Hermione mid-rant. "you should keep those opinions to yourself, if you know what's good for you."

There was no malice in his voice, but Hermione felt a shiver go up her spine, and her mouth turned dry. There was something about the boy's incisive eyes that set her ill at ease.

She felt the train lurch to a stop, and she busied herself with packing up all her books, secretly grateful for the excuse not to respond.

The boys slipped out of the compartment without another word, luggage in tow. Hermione closed her suitcase and hurried after them, straining at the weight. Perhaps she should have packed all those books in the checked luggage after all.

"First years! First years, please follow me!" A tall, formidable looking girl with curling, dark hair paced back and forth down the corridor, hands cupped around her mouth to project her voice.

Students passed her in every direction, chattering and exiting in groups, instrument cases hanging from their shoulders. They all seemed to know where they were going. She'd been given no direction from the letters she'd received other than to buy certain materials and get unto the train, and when she sought out a prefect, they had simply told her to get changed and find a compartment.

"Excuse me, miss?" Hermione rushed towards the dark-haired girl. She seemed to know what was going on.

"I'm a seventh year, but I've just transferred in. I've got no idea where I'm going."

The girl paused and turned towards her, giving her an apraising look. "Yes, I think there are one or two of you this year. I'm Augusta Longbottom, Head Girl. You can follow me."

"First years!" She continued down the corridor, the youngest-looking students only beginning to timidly poking their heads out of their compartments.

Before she knew it, Hermione was ushered down through ancient gates and down a maze of semi-light corridors until she stood in a large hall. The ceiling seemed to reach the clouds, and tall candles dripping wax off a bronze chandelier lit the stone walls with a warm glow. Nervous whispers filled the hall as the hundred or so first years surrounding her milled about, waiting for Augusta to return.

Over their heads, she was relieved to see one of the other transfer students Augusta had mentioned. A head of tight golden curls stood a few paces to her left, much too tall to be a first year, and she weaved her way towards it.

"Hello," she said as the boy turned to face her. "I'm Hermione. I was worried I was the only transfer."

He had honey brown eyes and his halo of curls flopped about with every slight tilt of his head. The movement sounded like bells, yellow bells. He gave her a dimpled grin. "I'm Alfred Macmillan, but people call me Alfie. I'm a seventh year, by the way. Oh, and this is Helena Fletchley. We met on the train."

She followed his gaze to a dark haired girl that she'd mistaken for a first year. Hermione was on the shorter side herself, but this girl couldn't have been five-foot.

"Nice to meet you. I'm a sixth year." Despite her stature, Fletchley's voice was low and sonorous. Brown, Hermione thought. She sounded brown, like coffee and aged wood.

"I'm a seventh year." She'd assumed that her situation was a rather strange one, moving to such a prestigious school in her last year, but perhaps not. "Why did you guys transfer in?"

"I was supposed to come here from the start, but m' mum decided to send me to a normal school for a couple years, get involved in some stuff other than music for a bit, you know." Alfie rubbed the back in his head. "We meant to switch earlier, but we just didn't get around to it until now."

Hermione had heard of the name MacMillan before, mainly in the author section in classical repertoire books. She nodded. It was easy to imagine a son of some respectable musical family transferring in whenever he liked.

"Got in on scholarship," Fletchley shrugged. "Turns out I've got a knack for singing."

"I'm on scholarship as well," Hermione replied.

"Oh! What do you play?" Alfie grinned. "Hogwarts doesn't give out scholarships to just anyone."

"Actually…I can't play an instrument." Hermione willed her face not to burn in embarrassment. "I compose."

She expected them to be skeptical or at least taken aback, but Alfie just grinned broader. "Ah! You'll fit right along with the Ravenclaws, you will."

"Ravenclaws?" Hermione frowned. "The dorm?" She'd read Hogwarts, A History countless times in preparation, and Ravenclaw was simply the name of one of the dorms.

"The people who stay in the Ravenclaw dorm." Alfie looked as if she'd just asked why the sky was blue. "You will be staying there, yes?"

"My letter never told me where I was staying."

"Mine didn't either." Fletchley frowned. "Should we know?"

Alfie chuckled. "I forgot you guys don't know how this school works. Don't worry, you get to choose where you stay. Most legacies grow up hearing stories about dorm competitions and such, which is mostly just listening to your parents badmouth or stereotype all the other dorms, so most people know where they want to go.

"Is it such a big deal?" Fletchley raised and eyebrow.

"Well yeah, sort of. You take classes with the people in your dorm, and each dorm has their own sports teams, and there's a lot of mutual dislike between the dorms, that kind of thing."

"Is there a difference, which dorm you choose?" Hermione asked.

"Well, Hufflepuff is full of kids who are studying to be teachers. Nice, friendly blokes, the lot of them. That's probably where I'm headed."

"Hufflepuff. Helga Hufflepuff." Hermione remembered reading about the founders of Hogwarts. Hufflepuff had been the famous tutor of dozens of musical prodigies.

Alfie nodded. "Then there's Ravenclaw. All of them are really smart. I mean _really_ smart. They usually end up writing books about music theory or going into some wacky field like auditory engineering, or composing, like you Hermione."

Rowena Ravenclaw, the scholar who'd laid the foundation for countless musical theories.

"Gryffindors are usually looking to get into contemporary music. Risky business if you ask me. Still, they're a rambunctious lot, and quite nice. a lot of non-legacies end up there."

Godric Gryffindor, who spearheaded the impressionist musical revolution in the late 19th century.

"And finally, there are the Slytherins. I doubt there's a single Slytherin who wasn't a legacy. Most of them are from extremely famous families, and they're all looking to be the next big thing in classical music. There's lots of pressure on them and it's pretty cutthroat."

Salazar Slytherin, one of the world's most renowned composers, and a musical purist in every sense of the word.

"There's really no good or bad dorm, but you do have to make a decision." Alfie's eyes darted to the door, which had begun to swung open. "Pretty soon, looks like."

"Good morning, first years." The crowded room of chittering, wide-eyed eleven-year-olds went uncommonly quiet as Professor Mcgonagall entered the room, the heavy oak doors shutting behind her with a resounding boom.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Music. I am Professor Mcgonagall. I teach Music Theory, among other subjects here. There is a great feast prepared for all of you, and I'm sure you are hungry, however first you must choose which dorm you wish to stay in."

She gestured to the four banners, each embroidered with a depiction of their respective house mascot. "Most legacies will know where they are headed, however some of you have no idea."

"I would advise you to choose the dorm that most closely aligns with your ambitions and passions. Gryffindor are the movers and shakers, if you will-"

She was interrupted with a cheer from dispersed members of the crowd.

"Yes, I see some dorm pride forming already. Like their namesake, Gryffindors are most commonly interested in contemporary music, and forging their own path. Hufflepuff has produced the some of the world's most esteemed teachers, Ravenclaw is home to lovers of musical knowledge and theory, and Slytherin is the breeding-ground for some of the best performers in the classical music scene."

While there were no more cheers, it was becoming obvious who would end up in which dorm.

"If you are still unable to make a decision, there are quizzes available to guide you. Please see a prefect for one. They can only recommend a dorm, however, the choice is yours to make. Please follow a prefect to your respective dorms after you have chosen."

Hermione watched as the crowd dispersed into four. Alfie bid them goodbye, dragging his luggage behind him as he headed to the Hufflepuff dorm. Without much deliberation, Fletchley left for the Ravenclaw dorm, and Hermione considered following her.

Ravenclaw was the most obvious choice, she supposed, but no one had mentioned anything about composition. Theory and knowledge were crucial to composition, but, that was only scratching the surface. Composition could change, move, express, discover.

She decided to take a quiz from a nearby Prefect, a tall, freckly boy with hair that could match Ginny's. _River or Forest_... _choose a pet...how would you like to be remembered in history..._ How did this have anything to do with music or the dorms?

Hermione tallied up the scores. Gryffindor, with Ravenclaw only one point behind.

"Ah, Hermione." Professor Mcgonagall gave her a thin-lipped smile as she walked towards her. "Have you decided where you would like to stay? I realize the concept might be quite foreign to you. We really should look into making this process more friendly for non-legacies."

"I haven't quite made up my mind. May I ask, Professor, what dorm were you in?"

"Me? I was in Gryffindor." Hermione must have looked shocked, because she added, "I know I don't seem like it, but I loved every moment of it. There's such a diverse range of people in Gryffindor every year, and you're bound to grow as a musician."

The Professor was called away to take care of business, and Hermione was left to make her decision. At first she started towards the group of Ravenclaws, but she found herself staring long and hard at the lion embroidered on the Gryffindor banner; red-gold, like a jazz composition. With a sigh she joined the loudest, most rambunctious group of first years she had ever seen.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading! I hope you caught on to my allusion of the Pottermore sorting quiz :) Please leave a review, if you liked it. Please leave a review if you hated it. I'd love you to death if you could tell me everything you didn't like about my writing, because that's how us wannabe writers get better and become real, full-fledged writers. Also, actively looking for a beta, so if anyone would be interested (God bless your kind soul) please let me know!**

 **Until next time,**

 **LetterBlue**


	2. Chapter 2

Tom wanted nothing more than to stab something sharp into Dorea Black's throat, or at least rub his temples to ease his pounding headache, but any sign of unease, or daresay, _malicious anger_ for that matter, was unbecoming. Then again, this might be preferable to herding trembling first years off the train, which was what he otherwise would have been doing, as recently appointed Head Boy.

"No, no, no!" Dorea was obviously not quite so concerned with her composure, as she threw her hands up in the air, sending stacks of scoresheets flying. "The flutes have to come in before the clarinets! And don't overpower the choir!"

She turned to glare at Dean Thomas, a recently graduated Gryffindor, before he could get a word in edgewise. "For the last time, we are not including your classical rendition of _Hey Jude_! This is Hogwarts' Alumni performance, not some improv class!"

Gritting his teeth, Tom placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Dorea dear, you must be exhausted. You have the most difficult job of anyone here." He flashed her a smile for added effect. "Why don't you take a break? Let me take over for a bit."

That seemed to sufficiently appease her, for she huffed a dramatic sigh and flipping her mane of signature Black family hair. "If you insist, Tom."

"From the top please, everyone." He took a stand at the conductor's podium, and motioned for the different instruments to begin.

With a sharp gesture from his hand, he cut them off. Something sounded abhorrent. "Harper, I believe you are a little bit out of tune. Could you fix that please?"

They started once again. It still wasn't perfect. Throwing together the patchwork of talent that was an entire Hogwarts graduating class is no simple task. They kept tolerable time at best and for heaven's sake _someone was_ _always out of tune_. Imperceivable to the average ear, but for Tom's perfect pitch, it was enough to give him a headache.

It would still sound absolutely magnificent to all but a select few, and trying to correct some of these imbeciles was a lost cause, so it would have to do. "Wonderful! I think we've got it. It's almost time for the students to arrive, so places please, everyone."

Right on cue, the faint thumping of hundreds of feet could be heard. Tom gestured to Dean to release the curtain, and thick, garnet-red cloth closed up to conceal them. From the outside, it was designed to look like the drapes of a one of the colossal windows that covered the Great Hall's other three walls, though it actually opened up to a stage.

Students piled into the room like sheep being herded into a pen. Instantaneously, energetic chatter began as they sat down at their respective tables. Nothing would happen until the first years had sorted themselves, so Tom took the time to disappear behind the stage and dry-swallow some aspirin. It would be a long night.

* * *

"Welcome back everyone. I hope you've had a wonderful summer and -ah! Welcome, first years." An incredibly old—if not regal-looking— man greeted them with a booming voice from his seat at a raised podium. Hermione was guided towards some older students at the Gryffindor table by Augusta, and took a seat.

"I am Headmaster Dippit. Before we begin our feast, I must make a few announcements. The left corridor of the third-floor is strictly for seventh-year performance-class students. As usual, the eastern forest is dangerous, and you must only enter with the accompaniment, or at least permission of a staff member. With the exception of prefects on duty, curfew will be enforced, and rule-breakers-" He gave pointed looks towards the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. "- _will_ be punished."

"As is tradition, our graduating class from the previous year will be providing us with a concerto this evening. Organized and led by previous Head Girl, Dorea Black, and our current Head Boy, Tom Riddle. Gideon Tonks, our previous Head Boy, is out of commission due to injury, so we send him our prayers."

Just as dozens of servers poured into the Hall, carrying tray after tray of steaming food, the air burst forth with blue-silver and purple, sounds of flutes and violins, quickly joined with clarinets and a burnt-umber cello line. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

Hermione tilted her ears, trying to pinpoint the location of the beautiful . It had an incredibly rich, full sound, but there certainly wasn't a live orchestra in the hall. The sound seemed stronger to her bottom left, and she noticed and grate in the lower edge of the wall. Speakers perhaps, or vents? Perhaps the performers were a floor below them, with the acoustics travelling up vents? She wouldn't put it pass a school like Hogwarts.

The dark-haired boy sitting across from her caught her eye and motioned his head towards a curtained window. _Behind the curtain?_ She mouthed. He gave her a nod, an amused expression pulling across his face.

Seconds later, the heavy curtains pulled away, revealing an orchestra containing upwards of a hundred people. The entire hall, even the first-years, were impossibly silent as they served themselves and ate, with not even a scrape of metal on plate to disrupt the music.

The entire orchestra was dressed in all black, except two members who wore green accents. One was the first violinist, a tall, regal girl with long hair as black and impressive as a storm cloud. Her black and green gown was sleeveless on the left, but had a full length, jade green right-sleeve, meant to draw emphasis to her fast-dancing bow.

The other was one of the pianists, a lanky boy, arms stretched across the keys with an easy possessiveness. He wore only a forest green tie, but in contrast with his pale face, dark suit, and the black-white piano, it stood out like the only colour in a film noir.

They must be the Head Boy and the previous Head Girl.

* * *

"Alexander Borodin."

"B-flat harmonic major."

"Nuclear decay. Of the beta variety."

"Professor, the recent economic collapse of Greece can be mostly attributed to the debt that…"

"Very good, Miss Granger!"

Somehow, Tom's first week of seventh year had been reduced to suffering through a bushy-haired girl whose sole purpose for existence seemed to be waving her hand enthusiastically, scribbling down notes like mad and answering questions as if she had the textbook memorized word-for-word.

However annoying, Tom wasn't foolish enough to label her a threat. Though the teachers were already favouring her a great deal (they liked her almost as much as they liked _him_ , damn it), he doubted she was a very good musician, no matter her instrument. The wording she used, her reliance on textbook teaching, it spoke volumes about a lack of practical experience.

There were always a few in every year who snaked their way into Hogwarts based solely on outstanding written scores and a knack for memorization. Some were geniuses in their own right, making the critical mistake of wasting their time on music. They were always the ones who worked the hardest, but had the least to show for it, convinced that with a little extra studying and a little more hard work…He would have pitied them, but he never did have much sympathy for the naive.

Still, there was a good chance, by the way things were already going, that she would be made Head Girl after he got rid of the real threat, Augusta Longbottom. If that were the case, it would work out perfectly. He knew her type of person, and it was one that was easily manipulated, unlike Longbottom.

The bell rang, and he waited a moment, tapping his fingertips against the wood of his desk. He never took notes, so he had little to pack up, but it would not do for him to be the first to leave every class. When a sufficient amount of people had left, Tom swung his near empty book bag over his shoulder and exited.

"Abraxas." The blasé, grey-eyed blond fell back beside Tom at the sound of his name. "Tell the others. We're having a meeting tonight, same place, same time."

"So soon?" A muscle feathered in the Malfoy's jaw, a sight that might have been menacing to those who didn't know the boy well. "Has something…change?"

If anyone else had questioned him, there would have been blood. "We need to get our affairs in order. We can't afford to dally our last year."

"Of course." Eyes flashing, he stepped out of sync with Tom, presumably heading to his next class.

* * *

"-he was just so wasted, you know? And Justin Swann was absolutely furious because he came to practice and threw up all over the-"

"R-right." Hermione nodded her head vigorously, hoping that Louisa Cleveley would find someone else to gossip at, sooner rather than later.

It hadn't taken her long to figure out that the majority of the seventh-year Gryffindors partied far too much for their own good, held the entirety of the Slytherin dorm with immense disdain, and obsessed over football more than she'd thought possible for any group of music students.

She was rather fond of the dorm itself, cosy in colours of gold, mahogany and scarlet, with golden chandlers casting a warm glow about the place, but the general pandemonium breaking lose every second of every minute did it's fair share of ruining the atmosphere.

"He kept going on about how Potter was going to cost them the game next Saturday and…"

"This is all very exciting," Hermione said, trying to muster even a tenth of the energy sparking in the blonde girl's eyes. "But I think I have to head to class early. I have some, er…I have to talk to someone about an assignment."

Before the girl could even blink in confusion, Hermione was around the corner and out of the dining hall. She made her way to the library, which she found herself doing more often than not, and was relieved to see Helena Fletchley's petite form bent over an impressive spread of books. The two didn't have many classes together, so they hadn't spoken much in the week they'd been here, but Hermione had gotten along quite well with the dark-haired girl that first night.

"Morning Helena. What are you reading?"

"Oh Hermione! Come take a look at this, will you?" The girl shoved a leather tome under Hermione's nose. "I just found a glaring contradiction in _Braxley's Harmonic Elements_ and I'm not sure what to make of it."

Hermione grinned.

Half an hour later, Hermione was sure she hadn't had a conversation half as stimulating all week. She sighed. "I'm starting to think I chose the wrong dorm."

"You know, I was wondering why you chose Gryffindor. They're all such…oh, what's the word…foolhardy, that's it, and well, loud."

She was getting used to Helena's blunt, matter-of-fact manner of speaking. "I don't know, I guess it just, spoke to me, in that moment. But now I don't know. I don't really get along with anyone there. A good lot of them think I'm a know-it-all."

"I think you'd get along with the people in the Ravenclaw dorm. It's only the first week. I've heard that it's rare, but they do allow students to change dorms early on, if they have a good reason. The professors seem to like you a lot, I'm sure you could convince them to let you switch."

Hermione hated feeling petty, but if it meant getting a full night's sleep, uninterrupted by midnight pranks, the occasional drunk wandering into the wrong room and roommates gossiping into the wee hours of the night…

"I'll think about it."

* * *

"Ronan Wood."

"What about him?" Tom's voice was sharp with irritation as he threw yet another stack of papers onto the table before him. The quality of research was deplorable. One would think they learn to be satisfactory after six years of this.

Avery's tall frame shrunk in on itself like the leaves of a touch-me-not."H-he's been more and more on the radar lately. His father's been networking for him non-stop over the summer, and he's due to debut within the next three months. There's talk that he might be offered a position at Julliard-"

"Robert Wood's only talent is kissing arse, and his son can't even manage that," he scoffed, picturing the obnoxious Ravenclaw screeching away on his Italian-made viola. "Calling him mediocre is generous."

"Do you have _anything_ of substance at all?"

His followers exchanged glances, their fear stifling the air in the empty classroom. They must have noticed his fast-darkening mood. The door swung open, and Abraxas appeared in the doorway with nothing except a slim folder in hand. He leaned against the stone wall silently, while five pairs of eyes honed in on him, shining with desperation.

"Well, Malfoy?" Tom drawled. It was uncommon for the blond to bring anything in, but when he did, it was rarely a waste of time. "What have got for me?"

He handed Tom the folder. "Take a look. These were creating quite a buzz in the admissions department over the summer."

Not questioning how he'd gotten his hands on the folder—Abraxas had infinite connections, and failing that, an impressively intimidating deadpan glare—Tom opened it, finding a neat stack of hand-drawn compositions.

The symbols were cramped and tiny, with notations written in a small, hurried script. The structure and harmonies of the first page were so unconventional that he almost brushed them off as the work of a pot-dazed Gryffindor trying to pass a transposed alternative song as his composition homework. After a second glance, the complex rhythm became plausible. After a third, Tom was struck by the unique use of texture and dynamics. A fourth…

He went very still.

"Abraxas." He skimmed over the blanched faces of his followers and fixed his gaze on the blond, who was still leaning against the back wall, arms crossed and expression disinterested.

"Hermione Granger. Seventh year."

"That commoner we met on the train?" Prince injected, sneering.

Abraxas ignored him, raising a dark eyebrow. "She's new."

" _Obviously_ ," Tom scoffed. "Or I would have seen this already."

Perhaps he had made a misjudgement. Rare, but nonetheless possible. He motioned to the door with a wave of his hand. "Dismissed until further notice. Nott, Lestrange. Stay."

The rest of the boys scrambled over each other in a rush to leave, most-likely relieved there would be no punishment.

"I want you two to keep tabs on her, and do some digging." He straightened from his chair, folder in hand. "I hope, for your sakes, you'll have something for me this time."

* * *

Hermione startled awake to a series of muffled crashes. This was becoming more and more the norm in the week she had been here, but honestly? A party at 1 am on Sunday night? Her roommates, Louisa and Adhika, were sound asleep despite the racket. Hermione had always been a light sleeper, and growing up an only-child probably worsened her inability to sleep through commotion. She had her first practical instrument lesson (mandatory, unfortunately) the next morning, and she didn't need to add sleep deprivation to the list along with deathly anxiety and utter incompetence.

Wrapping her night robe around her shoulders, she descended the stairs to the Gryffindor common room, intent on giving a scathing lecture that would do Molly Weasley proud.

"You idiot! Are you trying to wake up your whole dorm?" A voice hissed.

" _You're_ calling _me_ an idiot?!"

"Watch it!" There was another crash.

Hermione took the rest of the winding stairs in threes, and her cheeks burned when she finally saw the source of all the noise.

A dark-haired boy she remembered tipping her off about the hidden stage, and another boy wearing a green tie, were a tangle of limbs on the floor. The Slytherin boy had his hand fisted around the other's sweater, and the Gryffindor boy's hands were tangled in his hair. Surrounding them were the remains of what Hermione assumed had been a vase, and the flipped coffee table that once held it.

"I-I I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interru-" she started.

"We can explain! He's here because…we're out after curfew because-"

"What this bloke is trying to say is-"

"No, I saw nothing, er…I'm sure couples do this all the time-"

"Wait, couples? What do you-"

"It's perfectly fine if-"

"This isn't what it-"

"We're not _together_!"

"Oh." Hermione tried to force the blood out of her flaming cheeks. "Oh, _well_. What are you doing then?"

"That's a bit…complicated." The Gryffindor boy replied as he straightened himself and surveyed the wreckage. "Yeah, Mcgonagall's not going to like that one bit."

He ran a hand through his already untidy, dark hair, which only served to make it spike up more it every direction.

The Slytherin boy shot him a dark look, which shifted into a charming smile as he turned towards Hermione. He had an impressive mane of dark hair, and sharp, striking features.

"Alphard Black. I don't believe we've met." He offered a hand to Hermione, and when she took it, expecting a handshake, he grazed the tips of her knuckles against his lips.

It would have been unbearably cringe-worthy, had it not been for how naturally it seemed to come to him, and how aristocratic he looked. "Hermione Granger," she responded, trying to keep away the warmth that had just left her face.

"My pleasure." He grinned. His voice was the rich, dark blue of fountain pen ink.

"Trying to charm unsuspecting ladies at this hour, Black? How debaucherous." The Gryffindor boy snorted, hazel eyes flashing in amusement. "Charlus Potter, if you didn't already know. Call me Charlie."

Hermione took his hand and shook it. His voice was cardinal-red like a hearty laugh, and his grip was just lax enough not to be bone-crushing. She vaguely recognized him from some of his classes. He was rowdy and excitable, enough so that he stood out in a crowd of already rambunctious Gryffindors.

She looked from one grinning boy to the other, noting just how smug and nonchalant they looked, unabashedly breaking rules and disturbing her sleep.

"Since you robbed me of my beauty sleep, I think you owe me an explanation." She crossed her arms, letting some of her old bossiness slip back into her voice.

Charlie let out a bark of laughter. "Don't worry princess. I'm sure you'll still have an answer for every single question ever asked, even without the sleep."

"Maybe if _some_ people were less busy cracking jokes and a paid a bit more attention, I wouldn't have to." She retorted, eyebrow raised.

It was Alphard's turn to laugh. He turned towards Charlie with a canary-eating grin. "I like her."

"Yes Alphard. You've made it abundantly clear that you like anyone who'll take a jab at me." Charlie grumbled, an exaggerated expression of irritation plastered on his face.

"What do you say, Hermione? Take a guess, and if you're right, we'll tell you." The Slytherin looked, in that instant, like a spoilt, mischievous school-boy, taking pleasure in annoying his matron.

It occurred to Hermione that she could climb back up the stairs, forge a pair of make-shift earplugs and avoid the imminent mess altogether. It sounded like the smart thing to do, but at the moment, it didn't sound like the Hermione thing to do. Besides, it wasn't like she'd be able to get any sleep _now_ , was she?

"Pulling a prank?" she indulged. "Wait, no…"

Her gaze swept from the traces of mud their shoes to the near-empty school bags left slumped on the floor from the scuffle, a dried leaf clinging onto the worn leather. They'd been standing in the far corner of the common room, next to the bookshelves and the old portraits. Why?

"You're…You've been exploring. In the forest, where you're not supposed to, I'm assuming," she began. "You're in here to…look for something."

"A bit vague." Charlie eyed her up and down, stroking his chin comically. "But yes, I suppose you're right."

"You know how old Hogwarts is, Hermione?" Alphard asked.

"The school is 276 years old, but the castle and the grounds are over a thousand." She answered immediately.

"Yes! Exactly." Alphard make a grandiose sort of gesture towards the window. "A place as old as this one has got to have some secrets."

"Charlie's family's been going here for…how many generations Charlie? Ten or so? They have this old family heirloom. An old book filled with all sorts of different rumours from secret passageways to ghost stories. The whole family's dense like he is-"

Charlie elbowed Alphard in the gut.

"-so they've only confirmed about a dozen of them. We want to get through them all before we graduate this year."

"And Alphard's a closeted history freak so he's hijacked my family tradition."

"Well, which one were you looking into today?"

Charlie grinned. "Every heard of the Shrieking Shack?"

* * *

"Well why did you ask if you didn't want me to tell you?"

"You've been here a week! How could you _possibly_ know more about Hogwarts than I do?" Charlie shook his head, scowling. "Leave it to the know-it-all…"

"Hey, do you want my help or not?" Hermione pulled her jacket tighter even as the wind blew right through it. "Are you guys _honestly_ gonna tell me that after years of searching for the castle's so-called secrets, you haven't read Hogwarts, A History, even once?"

"It seemed too obvious." Alphard shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "I got through one-hundred pages of genealogy and figured there were more productive uses of my time. It's got to be the longest book ever written."

Hermione sighed. "Rowena Ravenclaw was the last speculated user of the shack, so she probably hid whatever you're looking for, not Gryffindor. I'm also willing to bet someone's figured it out before and hid the key themselves. It _has_ been two-hundred years."

"You want to take a look at our notes?" Charlie passed her a leather bound notebook, fat with printouts and cuts of much older parchment. She held it gingerly, for fear that some of the more yellowed clippings that stuck out the sides would disintegrate into the wind.

She paged through the bookmarked section, and was surprised by the quality of the research the boys had pulled up. She ran her finger down two sets of hurried scrawl commentating on the various information sources, one that seemed fixated more on dates and historical events, the other on clues and hypothesizes.

"The entrance will be hidden in a willow tree, huh?"

"Yeah. There's got to be a hundred willow trees in this forest, and none of them are big enough to plausibly hide a hidden door or something like that." Charlie rubbed his hands together and cupped them to his mouth. "Trust me, we've been checking for weeks. We ran out of ideas, so we decided to search the common room. I could have done it myself, but _Alphard_ over here insisted he come along and make everything difficult."

"This dolt wouldn't know a lead if it smacked him in the face." Alphard glared at hazel-eyed boy. "And besides, we would-"

"What are we standing here in the cold for?" Hermione halted mid-step, and Charlie avoided crashing into her only by virtue of athletic reflexes. "Willow! Willow wood. The liuqin! Come on!"

She bolted for the nearest entrance back inside, partly(mostly) to get out of the cold. The boys followed close behind, staring at her in bewilderment. "I remember seeing an antique liuqin hung in the halls somewhere! Where is it?"

When they faces continued to look blank, she raised an eyebrow. "The Chinese mandolin? Made of _willow wood_?"

Alphard's eye lit. "Oh! that one that's like the pipa, but smaller? I think there's one on the second floor, in left side of the history wing."

They headed for the history wing from the entrance east of Gryffindor tower. Hermione could barely see her own hand with all lights long since turned off and no windows in the interior corridors. It certainly didn't help that Hogwarts halls were particularly twisty, the jagged stone walls quite unforgiving if one happened to run into them. The floor was worn stone and uneven in places, stairs were steep and came out of nowhere, even in broad daylight, the… _Oh forget this_.

She pulled out her phone and fumbled until the flashlight function turned on. Immediately, this earned her a harsh whack to the shoulder.

"What are you doing? Turn that off!" Alphard hissed in her ear.

"Well, it won't be any good if I miss a stair and crash all the way down, now will it? That would certainly attract more attention that a little light." She didn't know the boys' exact location, but tried to keep her voice to a soft murmur.

"We're in the first floor dormitories, where all the teachers sleep." Charlie's gruff, barely-contained voice was audible behind her. "You have to be extra careful."

She switched her phone off, and promptly stepped into thin air. Muffling a squeak of horror, she felt a tight grip wrap around her wrist, bracing her. There hadn't been stairs there before, had there? "Thanks."

Hermione's own voice was a puff of lilac in the space before her. She rarely saw her own voice, but all colours became more prominent in the darkness.

"I keep forgetting you don't know this school very well yet. And I bet someone like you doesn't have much experience sneaking around in the dark either." She could hear the grin in Charlie's vivid red voice as he slacked his hold her wrist. "Grab my shoulder, just until we're past this bit."

The boys let her turn on her light after they were up on the second floor. With a light source, they located the liuqin with ease.

"This thing sure is old," Alphard scrutinized the instrument with a careful hand. "But is it hundreds of years old? It's been preserved well, though I doubt you could still play it to any accuracy. You'd need new strings and a new bridge at the very least."

"Is it fixed to the wall?"

Alphard pulled gingerly on the instrument, but it didn't budge. "I don't think it was originally, but it's been here so long the metal stand's malformed and rusted over it."

"I don't think-"

Hermione cut herself off at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. She quickly shut her phone off and shoved it into her jacket. A rough hand jerked her wrist, and she allowed herself to be led through the dark into what she assumed was an alcove.

"Who's there?" The beam of a small LED flashlight flittered from side to side, missing them. " Come out. I'm the Head Girl, and you'll face laxer punishment if you turn yourself in."

Panic seized in her throat. She couldn't get in trouble now, not when her position at Hogwarts was so precarious. _Expelled from Hogwarts for misconduct after miraculously getting accepted_...she blanched at the thought. What was she doing, searching for fanciful legends with people she didn't even know in the wee hours of the morning? And what was Augusta Longbottom doing, patrolling the second floor history wing this late at night anyways?

Being pressed between a body and the wall was not helping her anxiety, and her nose was smushed against someone's shoulder. She wasn't sure who's it was, but she had a feeling it was whichever one that wore a minty, sandalwood-y cologne. Augusta hung around for another few minutes, before huffing a sigh. The stairs creaked as she descended them, and nobody dared move until she was presumably at the bottom.

"We have to go back," She hissed. "It's not worth the risk now that she knows someone's here."

"You can't be serious," Charlie growled. "We've got a good lead. We're right here, and it's just Augusta-"

"Augusta who's had it out for you ever since you pulled that prank on her in fifth year?" Alphard interjected. "Hermione's right."

Whoever was pressing her against the wall stepped away, and Hermione could breath properly again.

"We can come back another day-" She hear Alphard pause to yawn. "Preferably when I don't have a 6am practice the next morning. "

Charlie seemed to acquiesce, for he put a guiding hand on her shoulder, (or was if Alphard this time? She couldn't tell if they didn't speak) and they shuffled their way down the stairs opposite the one Augusta took and made their way back to the first floor.

Hermione snuck a glance at her phone while she was still hidden by the alcove, turning the brightness way down. It was just past 2. If Alphard really did have morning practice, he would get two and a half hours at best. As for her, well…she was going to fail miserably in that practical class anyways.

* * *

 **A huge thank you goes out to SilentAttendance, SiriuslyHermione, stillbreathing2day, Lilymydeer, Elzie, Pat knowitall, deisaku, and Gracelander2 for reviewing!**

 **I honestly wasn't expecting so many views, and as someone relatively new to posting long stories, your words meant a lot to me :) It was so kind of you guys to take time out of your day to help me improve, or simply to encourage me. Once again, I'd love to hear anything you guys think about my story and my writing. I'm stumbling in the dark without you!**

 **Also, I am looking (desperately searching) for a beta reader, as I'm a bit of the fly by the seat of my pants writer who may or may not leave huge gaping plotholes, as some of you have thankfully already pointed out to me in the first chapter. I'm also an all-around mediocre editor. If anyone would be interested in giving me a huge hand by beta reading my work, please let me know! I would love you to bits!**

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 **Until next time,**

 **LetterBlue**


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